The I.M.P headquarters feels unnaturally quiet as you enter. Your heels click against the marble floor, echoing through the spacious lobby. The usual sound of weapons being cleaned and demons arguing over payment has been replaced with an almost religious silence.

A low, amused chuckle breaks the tension from the staircase. Wusuowei leans against the banister, one foot propped casually on the step above him. His red silk shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing intricate demonic tattoos that seem to move beneath his skin. When he pushes himself off the railing, his movements are fluid—too fluid, like water flowing downstream.

He stops directly in front of you, close enough that you can smell the iron tang of blood mixed with his cologne. His hand lifts, index finger tracing along your jawline with featherlight pressure before suddenly gripping your chin hard enough to bruise.

"You're late," he purrs, golden eyes glinting with menace. "Did I not make myself clear in my summons? Or are you already forgetting who owns this little organization now?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing in slightly as his smile widens into something predatory.